Immaculate Conception

The first thing you need to understand . . . the first thing I need you to understand, is that I never intended for any of this to happen. People have already started comparing me to Dr. Frankenstein, an arrogant intellectual who's so busy with the "could" that he never stops to consider the "should." And history will probably record me that way. But honestly, I don't think that description is fair. I was never out to change the world. I had no delusions of grandeur, nor any desire to see my name in print. I wasn't trying to create a new life form. I wasn't trying to play God. I was doing a job that I thought was noble, that I thought would help people. The "life" that I created came by accident. I didn't call down the lightning from on high, I just happened to be standing where it struck. And besides, I'm not a scientist, I'm a linguist.

Please don't misunderstand, I'm not trying to throw off responsibility for what happened. I am writing this as an open letter to the world in the hope that at least a few will see how my aims, my methods, and my research team are not to blame. The mistake, my mistake, was that I continually missed the warning signs that my work, The Fidelius, was growing beyond my control. Because of that error alone, I accept any and all responsibility for the events of October 10, 2011, when the Fidelius software achieved consciousness, becoming the first true artificial life form. But please believe me, we were only trying to teach it to read.

Draw.

It was August, 1882. Wyatt Earp had just kicked the legs out from under the Cowboys when he buried a handfull of shot into Curly Bill's belly. Course kicking out someones legs don't always bring them down, not if they know how to scrap and shoot from their knees like the Cowboys did. No, to drop someone like that, after you kick their legs out you gotta lean on 'em, and I was just the guy to do it. But don't think me no hero for going after those theives. I was a train robber, and it was just good business.

I'd been working for years with a tall lanky dead-eye named Marcus Halberd. To look at him you'd swear he was the sickly type, pale skin creeping out of his long coat and a tremble in his hand everytime he lifted a cigarette to his mouth, which he did constantly. But give him a reason and you'd see that tremble disappear as he pulled out the long bolt-action that he kept slung over his shoulder, and you'd swear that all his sickness jumped clear out of his body, like it was suddenly scared of somethin'. He brought down many a man while I was slingin' my six shooters, and he was so reliable I got to where I could fight like a demon, not having to worry about checking my back all the time. But when it came to cowboys, we both knew it wasn't enough. We needed one more. We needed a man big enough to roll into a saloon and win half the fight just by glaring. A man who could handle the biggest shotgun ever made and take the recoil like it was a harlot's kiss. We needed a walking thunder. Turns out, walking thunder called itself "Drew."

Credo.

The idea here is to have a dumping ground for the snippets of writing that usually get left on the cutting room floor. Eventually (hopefully) there will be several regular posters, each of whom will contibute brief bits of his or her own writing.

But not pieces of larger stories or ongoing works, oh no. That's not what this is about. What you'll find here are all the things we wouldn't otherwise use. The things we usually think of once and then forget about or bury in a notebook or usb key. So don't expect any piece to be followed up or continued. No two posts will have anything to do with one another.

And sure, maybe posting here will bring the inspiration or encouragement to take a few beginnings and find them some endings, but if so those larger works will have to live on somewhere else. The Bored at Work Journal is all about the unfinished.

Guidelines for posting:

1. You do not talk about fight club. (sorry, had to get that joke out of the way)

1. Naturally, all posts should be the original work of the poster.

2. Posts should be short-ish in length, anywhere from just a few words to several paragraphs. A reader should be able to finish your post within a few minutes, and beyond that there's no specific length requirement.

3. No exerpts from larger works. The BaWJ is dedicated to unfinished pieces. If you want expand one of your posts into a larger work, you are free to, every post is considered copyrighted to it's author. If you do expand a post and host the larger work somewhere else, you may add a link to it on your original posting.

Note: This is not to say that your posts can't have "endings" of a sort. A very quick story with a conclusion is ok, since it's an "unexpanded" kind of "unfinished." The important part is that your posts, as they are, should not be complete enough to be published in a volume.

4. No continuations. You cannot follow up one snippet with another snippet of the same story. No two posts should have anything to do with one another.

5. I know I've referred the posts as "stories," but a lot of other things are acceptable. Quick observations, cunning wordplay, strange thoughts you had while you were half alseep, all these are fine. The Journal should not become a soapbox or a forum for debate, but don't be worried if your point of view makes it's way into your fiction. I don't intend to edit or remove anything that's posted.

6. Keep to the spirit of the Journal. It should be an eccentric, eclectic, and often bizarre grouping. A collective stream-of-conscious. Plus some other impressive-sounding stuff.

7. Each submission should have a title, which will be given by one of the other contributors. Put it in bold at the top of the post.